Lab Monkey (State Dinner 1)
by Alexandra926
Summary: Mark Watney, doctoral candidate, is feeling the pressure when an experiment goes wrong at the University of Chicago. Sometimes failure can be more interesting than success.
1. Chapter 1

You know, everything was just fine until this past Thursday.

Then, it was time to run this experiment that was the culmination of four years of work.

It was an utter failure. And I only have myself to blame.

I really don't need this shit. Seriously. I was doing just fine with engineering. And then I got to thinking about developing my botany skills, and how much more marketable it would make me. Yeah, right! Now I'm staring down the barrel of a job interview that goes like this:

Them: "I see your resume is pretty much blank for the last four years here Mark, what have you been doing?"

Me: "Failing at earning my doctorate."

Them: "Don't call us, we'll call you."

I wish I were kidding. But I'm not. Not even a little bit. I've single-handedly managed to torpedo my entire fucking career.

I don't know why I decided to switch away from ecology and field work, which would have served me well. And I really, seriously, don't know why the fuck I decided to pursue this project here at the University of Chicago, of all places, since they have nobody but me on campus here working on the molecular genetics of plants.

It was misguided, and stupid, and now I'm paying the price for it. Even though I was admitted, I've spent the last four years existing on the goodwill of the various other professors that do molecular work, but not on plants. For the most part, they've been helpful. But the technical issues, dealing with the molecular biology of plants... well, it can be difficult. And it's totally beyond them. And why the fuck would they care, anyway?

As a result, I've had to do everything - literally, everything! - myself. Imagine doing the post-doc for your own PhD, instead of having lab support, and you can see the shitpile that I find myself in, today.

This sucks, by the way.

So maybe you're wondering...

Mark, you're saying, what the hell went wrong here? How is it possible to fuck yourself over this aggressively? How could everything be riding on one lousy experiment? And you're a scientist, right? Negative results are still results, right? Even data that disproves the hypothesis is still data for the dissertation, right?

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

It was my own self-confidence that killed me. I've always been of the opinion that I can learn anything if I put my mind to it, but at this point I'm ready to concede that it's just about possible that I overestimated my abilities, here. I've had to force myself to learn unfamiliar disciplines at an absurdly high level in a ridiculously short amount of time, and that was my first mistake, folks.

But the bigger problem is the lack of actual data. It's not a "null hypothesis" situation, where I can say, "Well shit, that didn't work!" No, in this case, the process failed me. Why? I don't know. I didn't think of something, and I have no idea what it is.

I still haven't taken my quals, and now I'm thinking it might be the time to go ahead and do it. Mostly because I have nothing fucking else to do, at this point. Spending a few solid weeks cramming for the test sounds like a tropical vacation in comparison to what I've been doing this week.

What have I been doing, you ask? Oh, nothing that would be considered embarrassing, like long, awkward meetings with the committee chair, trying to explain my situation without bursting into tears. They have reiterated that I absolutely MUST be finished by the end of the next academic year. I'm so tempted right now to just give it up. Walk away. Another ABD hits the pavement. Happens all the time, right?

I constantly wonder just why in the hell I did this. I had a good job. Things were going well, professionally.

But was I satisfied? Of course not! I just had to try to take things to the next level.

I'm just about at the end of my rope.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, Mark. Things can't really be that hopeless."

I didn't answer her. Things really _are_ that hopeless, unfortunately.

"Can't you do anything with the samples?" She paused, thinking for a moment. "What if you dropped the population genetics aspect, and went with the ecology analysis from your field work, instead?"

"I think the only thing I can do with those samples is throw them in the trash," I admitted. "There's just no DNA left. The extraction process didn't work. It ought to have worked, but it didn't. So that's four years of cataloging samples from four different places, down the drain."

It's been three weeks since the ill-fated DNA extraction that derailed my entire dissertation. Honestly, I'm still reeling. But the shock is starting to wear off. And I'm not giving up that easily. There's got to be a way.

So, in my eternal wisdom, I've swallowed my pride, and enlisted the help of one of the greatest botanists I've ever known, to see if she has any ideas to salvage things.

Really, her idea is not a bad one. Except for the fact that I only have a year, and changing directions like that would take at least three. She's a smart lady, did I mention that? She knows botany inside and out. You've heard about amplified fragment-length polymorphism, right? Of course you haven't. She was one of the lead researchers that dreamed that shit up, about twenty years ago. Queen of the plant nerds. A living legend among botanists.

You're probably wondering; if I have unfettered access to someone like this, why haven't I asked her advice long before now, right?

Well. The main reason is that she's my mom. Yep. It's awkward. But I'm desperate. So here I am, hat in hand, humbly asking for help.

"So, you use fresh samples, then. You refine your extraction technique, and you start from ground zero."

"That's three years, minimum. And I'm going to be kicked out of the department in less than a year." Her expression changed, then. She was looking down, covering her mouth with her hands, shoulders shaking a little bit.

She's laughing at me. What the ever-loving fuck.

I shoved my chair back from the table and started to stand up, glaring at her.

She motioned for me to sit back down, still chuckling.

"What's so funny?" This is kind of my whole professional life, hanging on the line here. I'm a guy that finds the comedic potential in a situation, whenever I can. But I have a funny feeling that right now, _I'm_ the joke. Not a good feeling.

Finally, she sits up straight and looks at me, with a kind of expression on her face that I haven't seen in a long time. It reminds me of when I was a kid and she was about to tell me to eat my vegetables, or do my homework.

"Up until now, Mark, you've been leading a charmed life. Academically speaking."

I gave her a dubious look.

"Are you suggesting that things are about to get worse? Because I really don't think that's even -"

"Oh, yes." She was laughing again, nodding. "If you want that doctorate badly enough, you're going to have to give those assholes at U of C a reason to keep you onboard."

Oh, shit. Surely, she's not suggesting...

"You need two more years. And that's if nothing else goes wrong."

No. I am a scientist, not an Amway salesperson.

"You're going to have to find them the funding, Mark. You'd better start researching government agencies that might be interested in your work."

"Who the hell would give me a grant for this?" I don't even know where to start. She's right, of course, damn her. I _have_ been leading a charmed life. Fundraising is so completely outside my comfort zone. I'm a lab monkey, not some charming PR guy.

"It's the only way, as far as I can see it." She gave me a sympathetic grin. "Chin up, kid. You've got almost an entire year. You'll find something."

I am so fucked.

"One more little piece of advice?"

I nod.

"Get a haircut, Mark."


	3. Chapter 3

You might be surprised to hear how quickly a lab monkey can transform himself into a charming PR guy, when the need arises.

Less than a year, as it turns out.

So yea, I somehow managed to pull myself together and now I'm broadcasting live from the other side of the hell that was my doctoral.

I'm happy to report that last month, I successfully defended my PhD, and you may henceforth refer to me as Dr. Watney.

Hell, put that shit on my tombstone:

 ** _Here lies Dr. Mark R. Watney_**

 ** _Took him a few extra years_**

 ** _But he finally showed up!_**

So here's what wound up happening. I badgered and begged, and made such a pest of myself at the various government agencies, that finally some kind soul put me in touch with people who actually knew what the hell they were doing with Public Relations, and they helped get the word out that a University of Chicago molecular geneticist had some ideas for sustainable farming.

Guess who my first nibble was?

None other than a little agency known as NASA. Yes, you read that correctly. NASA. As in, those fine people who put astronauts into space? Talk about a big fish. I nearly pissed myself, once I was sure that it wasn't some kind of joke.

Turns out, they had some ideas themselves about some experiments that were vastly similar to my own.

Except for the microgravity aspect.

So, funding was awarded to the head of the Botanical Genetics department here at University of Chicago - but wait! There was no such person! The logical solution of course, was to make that person exist, before that offer of sweet, sweet funding disappeared. The only interested available party? Yours truly.

Now that I'm the anointed King of Botany here, I try to reign over my subjects with grace and aplomb. Alright, alright. I only have a staff of three. But we do have our own coffeemaker, so there's that.

Would you believe that all of that is not even the most exciting thing that's happened? Of course not. How much awesome is one person's allotted lifetime max?

Eventually we're going to be repeating these experiment processes on the International Space Station, I shit you not. And since it was my project, I might actually be the one who gets to go up there and do it. Apparently that engineering degree might come in handy, after all.

So now, I've got a new goal.

Is the world ready for this?

 **Mark Watney, PhD**

 **Astronaut**


End file.
